Broken Mirrors
by ShadowsHideYou
Summary: More misadventures with Holodeck Technology. The crew of DS9 is unwittingly pulled into a simulation of Germany on the eve of WW2. Please read the Author's Note at the beginning. The title is inspired by a few different things.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I want to apologize in advance if this offends anyone or causes any triggers (either this chapter or later chapters). It is something of a period piece (though I make no claims to complete historical or canonical accuracy). Some racist ideas/particular notions concerning gender (circa. 1930s-1940s) will be presented, however, I have tried to make them light and only added for a bit of atmosphere. Without further ado, enjoy.

 **Prologue:**

 **November 10, 1938**

 **Bergen, Germany**

 **Police Headquarters**

. . . . . . . . . .

The woman sitting handcuffed across the desk from Police Commissioner Theodoric Ghmitz was completely silent. Theodoric studied her intently as she stared at him with a hard, unblinking gaze in her dark eyes. Two of his officers had dragged her in the night before, leaving their commander to oversee her punishment in the morning.

She was young, no older than thirty or so, with a fair complexion and auburn red hair cut short, just barely framing her chin. The more he studied her, the more he picked up on the slightly unhealthy pallor of her skin, the dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her face. She was a small, slight thing as well, he noted, and looked as if she didn't get quite enough to eat on a regular basis. As if this wasn't enough, a nasty bruise was now forming on her right cheek, and a small cut lined her lip. He had attempted to offer her some ice to put on the bruise, when she had first been brought into his office, but she had ignored him, refusing to respond to the small gesture of kindness.

"Right then, well," he coughed lightly in an attempt to decrease some of the tension in the room. Still, the woman made no reply. Her expression didn't change, nor did she turn her sharp gaze away. He was struck once again (as he had been when he first laid eyes on her) with the uncomfortable similarity she bore to Elaina. She was shorter, sure, and her hair was the wrong color, but something in the shape of the face . . . the eyes . . . that expression he had so often seen on his daughter's face when she was determined to do something, and consequences be damned. He could almost see her in the young woman sitting across from him . . . but no, he put it out of his mind. It did not do to dwell on the past.

"Frau Keller, if I'm going to help you, I need you to cooperate with me," he said gently, folding his hands together as he leaned slightly forward, attempting to adopt a more casual posture to put the woman in front of him at ease. As he did so, his mind was drawn unwillingly to the picture in his desk drawer, the framed photo that had been carefully placed face down the day his daughter died, and never moved since.

The woman didn't acknowledge he had spoken, didn't even blink, her mouth set in a hard line.

Theodoric sighed, resting his chin in his hand as he regarded her.

"You're making this more difficult on yourself, you know. We don't have to be enemies."

She didn't answer right away, causing him to lean back in his chair and turn his gaze out the window in frustration, watching the soft patter of snowflakes against the cold glass. When she did speak, he almost didn't catch it. Her voice was quiet, but deadly serious as she replied, for the first time in over an hour.

"We will always be enemies, Commissioner."

Startled, he turned back to look at her, meeting her icy stare, like knives slicing into him. The hate simmering in her expression bothered him more than perhaps it should have.

"Frau Keller," he began.

"Fräulein, Commissioner, I am not married," she interrupted him.

He nodded, "Of course, I just assumed . . . I'm sorry."

He noted, with some surprise, that her mouth quirked in an odd, mocking smile (that did not reach her cold eyes) as she drawled sardonically, "Are you going to tease me for being an old spinster, Commissioner?"

"No, no, of course not," he said. "My daughter she . . . she never married either . . . she was too in love with her art," he added the last bit with a fond, yet sad smile, as his mind supplied _a_ further, _and her State_ , which he swiftly dismissed.

"Was?" the woman asked, looking curious despite herself (and just a tad annoyed at her own inquisitiveness).

"She . . . died a few years ago," he answered briefly, looking at his folded hands resting on the wooden surface of the desk.

The woman hesitated a moment before murmuring a quiet, "I'm sorry for your loss."

He glanced up at her, surprised. "Thank you. Now . . . On to you," he had gotten her talking, and, as he didn't fancy being stuck in his office much longer (or the idea of throwing her in a cell for a second night), he thought it best not to let her slip into her stubborn silence once more. "Is there a reason you saw fit to assault one of my officers?"

She snorted in bitter amusement, an expression on her face that said she wasn't surprised at his reaction but that (in a perfect world) she should have been. "Did your officer bother to tell you that he was harassing a defenseless old man?"

Theodoric glanced down at his desk, thumbing through the brief report the officer in question had left him. "Ah, yes," he said after a moment, "Ein Herr Ehrmann, nein? The old Jew . . . It says here that he was refusing to cooperate with a routine inspection."

"A routine inspection?" she scoffed. "Your men practically knocked down his door for no reason and ransacked his shop and his home!"

"Herr Ehrmann has recently fallen under . . . a bit of scrutiny, Fräulein Keller. My men were well within their rights to search his property."

She shook her head, looking at him in incredulous disgust, "How can you defend them? With everything else that happened . . . How can you defend terrorizing an old man on . . . rumors? Or ancestry and religion, for that matter?"

"Trust me when I tell you we have more than rumors . . . My men were just doing their job, following orders," he insisted, though her words echoed in his mind, reflecting off uncomfortable doubts he himself had been having. He purposely ignored the other accusations, not that it mattered. Everyone knew what had caused the chaos last night, why it had been caused. It wasn't a secret, but it was a policy decision that he simply did not feel up to discussing at the moment.

"That doesn't make it right," she replied firmly, looking at him steadily, as if daring him to contradict her.

He sighed, observing her with a weary expression, "I have a duty to the people of this city, to protect them from malcontents."

She looked down at her lap, a bitter smile playing across her face as she murmured softly, almost too low for him to hear, "Maybe if you reconsidered some of your other _duties_ , you wouldn't have so many malcontents."

There it was again, that little voice of guilt nudging him in the back of his mind, but he batted it away again, replying sternly, "Nevertheless, you should not have involved yourself. This is a police matter."

She laughed, a harsh sound, looking up at him with a scornful expression. "A police matter? Were the _looting_ and the _arson_ police matters too?," her voice took on an almost manic note, mixed with a scorching righteous anger. Dropping her volume suddenly, she chuckled darkly to herself, asking rhetorically, "Was the brutality a 'police matter'?" She gritted her teeth, staring him down as she said, "Commissioner, this affects far more people than _that_."

"And what makes _you specifically_ qualified to interfere?" he demanded.

"Because I am Jewish, Commissioner, and because that man is my neighbor," she replied boldly, holding her head up and looking him directly in the eye.

He paused, catching his breath and listening to the sound of his secretary tapping away on a typewriter in the other room. Was it his imagination, or did the keys stop for just a fraction of a second? He was grateful now that he had possessed the foresight to close the door.

Running a hand across his face and leaning back in his chair, he muttered darkly, "You shouldn't say that."

"Why?" she demanded impetuously. "I am not ashamed. Nor do I fear the actions of men like you."

He looked at her, an inexplicable sense of dread tugging at his heart. Suddenly, he leaned forward, startlingly her and causing her to stiffen. Gently taking her hands in his own, he whispered urgently, "Fräulein, you seem like a decent young woman. Things are . . . not going well in the State, and I do not wish to see you come to harm."

Recovering herself, she jerked her hands away, narrowing her eyes at him. "Oh? I suppose you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"

"Please," he insisted, "Please, just listen to me." She fell silent, watching him with her eyes still narrowed. He took that as a sign to continue, making sure to keep his voice quiet as he muttered urgently, "You were right in claiming that this situation is not merely a police matter, but I urge you, I _beg_ you not to get involved." Here he hesitated, realizing what he was about to say was, in effect, treason. Taking a deep breath, he plunged on ahead anyway. "You may not believe this, but I am not a bad man, Fräulein Keller. I have, admittedly, done many things I am not proud of, but I do not wish to see one such as yourself come to harm. A storm is brewing, my dear, one you doubtless have seen coming for a long time, and I wish to see you through it."

She pulled away from him, eyeing him warily. "I'm afraid I don't follow, Commissioner.

He hesitated once more, wondering how to phrase his next comment. "You . . . bear certain . . . characteristics of your race, but you could pass for a full blooded German" he began slowly.

"Excuse me? I _am_ German!"

He ignored the look of ire on her face, continuing, in an attempt at delicacy,"Yes, but you are also . . . otherwise. Certain features . . . the shape of your nose . . . your eyes . . ."

"Unbelievable," she muttered to no one in particular, making a faint noise of derision.

"What I mean to say is, you could hide your ancestry," he finished.

"And when my records are examined?" she replied coldly.

"Records can be faked," he said quietly, looking at her in earnest. "Especially in a smaller, more isolated city with a less than standardized system of documentation. In such a place people could . . . slip through the cracks."

"I don't believe it . . . You're actually serious," the offended look on her face was damning, but he didn't back down.

"I want to help you," he repeated.

"Why? Why do you, of all people, care what happens to me?" she demanded to know.

Again, the picture in his drawer came to mind.

"Because I've lost too much to the State already," he replied simply, quietly. There it was, the final nail in his coffin, not that she could personally use it against him, if it came down to it. Was that damn secretary still typing? It seemed he was growing more and more paranoid these days, or perhaps just observant.

"Just . . . go home for now, let your family know you're alright. I can sweep this incident under the rug . . . this time. But please, just keep your head down. I'll be in touch, Fräulein."

She looked at him pensively for a moment, conflicting emotions chasing themselves across her face. Appearing to come to a decision, she replied, "My name is Nina, Commisioner."

"Then you may call me, Theodoric, Nina."


	2. Chapter 2: A Woman in Bergen

AN:I had meant to do this in the prologue, but I would like to thank The Cheshire Cheese for providing inspiration for this story with their story "The Silver Bird". It was a good read, I would highly recommend it. Second, I want to apologize for how long it took to update this story (and how long it may take in the future). The past few weeks have been kind of hectic. Also, I am attempting to inject some history into this, but if I make a claim that's just blatantly ridiculous, feel free to correct me. That said, I will not pretend to perfect historical accuracy (some details had to be twisted for the sake of plot). I am also adding some OCs to the Star Trek part of this universe (as in, not just random hologram OCs, but random hologram OCs based off of OCs I created for the universe. You'll understand later). I'm not great with names, but for most of the characters, I attempted to keep their first and last initial (i.e. Nina Keller, Kira Nerys). Also, if anyone wants to serve as a Beta for this story, let me know via PM. Thanks. Without further ado, Chapter 2 (rhymes are fun).

 **. . . .**

 **November 11, 1938**

 **2:27 am**

 **City Records Office**

 **Bergen, Germany**

Theodoric Ghmitz gently nudged the old metal door open, mindful of the awful creaking noise it had made the last time he visited. Shooting one final, wary glance around the deserted street, he carefully stepped into the silent building, thankfully abandoned at this time of the night (though there was always a chance that the night watchman had undergone a sudden change of heart and decided to take his job seriously for once).

The Commissioner barely withheld a snort of contempt at the idea, imaging the closet alcoholic holed up somewhere private with nary a clue nor concern about his own name, much less his guard duties (though with a justified fear of his secret vice being discovered, a fear Ghmitz wouldn't hesitate to exploit). Nevertheless, it paid to be on alert at all times. He silently prayed to all the deities he didn't believe in that he wouldn't be forced to tie up any more 'loose ends' than absolutely necessary tonight. He had enough to worry about already.

Sticking his hand in his pocket, he idly fingered the edge of the small key he had brought with him, borrowed nearly five years earlier by his predecessor and never returned. Whether the action had been performed intentionally or not, he didn't know, though he suspected the latter. The former Commissioner, a notoriously forgetful man, had served hardly a year before being replaced due to incompetence.

Quite possibly the only other person who might remember the incident was the keeper of the original key (an elderly, arthritic man far too ready for retirement to perform his own job with much spirit). The older gentleman rarely came into work for more than a few hours at a time, much preferring the company of his books and his cats. Undoubtedly, he would soon be replaced as well.

Privately, Theodoric marveled at the fact that it hadn't happened yet, while simultaneously thanking the deities that he still didn't believe in for the occasional oversight possible in small towns. Bergen wouldn't be overlooked for long though. Uncomfortable rumors already circulated about a potential holding camp to be constructed nearby for "enemies of the State". Such 'rumors' were on the long list of reasons he found himself unofficially entering a local government building on a freezing cold November night. He only hoped his actions would be enough to keep a certain individual (for whom he felt desperately afraid) safe. Deliberately setting these worrisome thoughts aside, he refocused all of his attention on the task before him.

Upon finding the sought-after room, Theodoric carefully shifted the torch he carried, letting its bright beam fall upon the wooden door while he silently withdrew the proper key. Opening it, he stepped inside.

The narrow stream of light from the electric torch swept carefully across rows and rows of crowded,cluttered shelves in the silent chamber. Small motes of dust danced idly under its golden gaze, like a translucent cloud of insects under a pale sun.

Few people ever bothered to visit the Records Room. Most were discouraged by its lack of order, its gloomy aspect. Tucked away in a windowless corner of the city clerk's office, it was often overlooked unless needed for medical, legal, or other associated reasons. The caretaker's lack of oversight made merely finding the proper file a monumental task.

He sighed as surveyed the disorganized space, trailing his fingers across some of the folders stacked on the shelves. It was going to be a long night.

 **. . . . .**

 **November 11, 1938**

 **3:48 am**

 **In another part of the city**

"Mama!" a terrified shriek pierced the still night, startling Nina out of the mental labyrinth in which her disturbing dreams had entrapped her.

The woman sat up in a flash, almost before her eyes had fully opened, throwing the blanket off herself and onto the sofa where she had accidentally fallen asleep. She shivered as her bare feet made contact with the cold floor. Ignoring the discomfort, she rose and hurried to the source of the noise. The cry came again, this time accompanied by a pitiful whimper.

Entering their small, shared bedroom, Nina flicked on the battered lamp (resting on an equally battered side table) before moving to gather the thrashing form of her crying child into her arms.

"Shh, Ruth. Ruthie, wake up. It's just a dream," she murmured gently, rubbing soothing circles on the three year old's back as the little girl awoke with a shudder. Nina held her close, placing a kiss on the top of her head as she continued to speak comforting words to the crying toddler.

"Bad men, Mama," the child sobbed, clutching at Nina's nightgown. "Don't let them get me! Don't let them hurt me."

"Hush now. No one's going to get you. I'm here. You're safe. I promise," she replied, tilting her daughter's face up and gently wiping away some of the tears, while simultaneously trying to crush the feelings of guilt that gripped her heart. She wondered how much of the mob's actions the little girl had seen or heard the other day.

Nina had never advertised her faith or ancestry to the general public. She didn't attend any of the local synagogues, instead worshipping with a small group that met in secret. Nor was she from Bergen originally; her father had moved herself and her two brothers to the town from a nearby village when she was a child, and had fortunately possessed the foresight not to talk freely about his own or his children's heritage. Most of their neighbors hadn't questioned it, choosing instead to pity the motherless children and respect the privacy of their hardworking artisan father, a man who never had an unkind word for anyone.

Of course, Nina's official documents would reveal the truth, but the Bergen Records Room was in something of a state of disarray and had been for many years. In any case, no one had come knocking when she purposely neglected to register for an identification card a few years previously.

Overall, such precautions had saved her from the mob's wrath, but the sight of her child weeping in fear from a nightmare struck a terror deep in her heart, reminding her that her life wasn't the only one on the line if someone found out her secret. She privately cursed herself for her exclamation, "I am a Jew", made in a moment of anger and righteous indignation to the Police Commissioner (though another part of her was fiercely proud of it). His words about "seeing her through the storm" had seemed sincere enough, but Nina was hesitant to place any faith in his actions.

Recalling her daughter's distress, she pulled herself away from her thoughts, suddenly realizing that Ruth had had an accident from her fear. Gently, she lifted the girl and carried her into the bathroom where she filled the tub. She hummed a soft tune she recalled from her own childhood as she moved to ready the toddler for her bath, only to freeze when she spotted a mark running down the side of the girl's neck and across her shoulder onto her back.

"Ruth," she asked in a soft, yet serious voice, careful to keep her tone calm in order not to frighten the child further, "Can you tell me what happened to your back?" She turned her fully around as she spoke, face going blank and mind beginning to scream in a mixture of rage and horror as she observed the extent of what appeared to be a nasty burn crawling down her daughter's back, charred and blackened flesh mixing with her normal fair skin. She felt bile rise in the back of her throat as she looked at the wounds.

"You weren't there, Mama," the child replied sadly. "The bad men got me." She turned to face Nina again as she finished speaking, causing the woman's eyes to widen in horror, even as she resisted the urge to back away.

The child's face had begun to rapidly deteriorate as if consumed by an internal fire, an ugly black spot appearing on her forehead like mold and spreading rapidly as her flesh appeared to turn to ash, the white of her bones peaking out. Nina couldn't move, paralyzed as the girl's dark eyes displayed an expression of hurt, confusion, and betrayal.

"You should have been here," she whimpered, "You should have protected me." Her voice turned shrill as she exclaimed,"It hurts, Mama. Make it stop!"

Nina reached out to try to help (though she knew not how), but the girl's body tumbled forwards abruptly. She lay still as her mother caught her in her arms before beginning to crumble into dust.

"No!"

. . . .

"Mama?"

Nina woke with a start, heart pounding and sweat beading on her forehead. Despite the perspiration on her face, she felt deathly cold. Disoriented, she sat up swiftly, looking around in a panic, only to spot the confused face of her young daughter peering up at her.

"Mama had a bad dream?" the toddler asked, placing her small hands on either side of the woman's face with a look of innocent concern.

Nina placed a hand over one of her daughter's, holding it tightly while she gently cupped the sleepy child's face, tilting it this way and that and inspecting it carefully before checking her for any other injuries. She appeared to be in perfect health, without even a scrape on her, a feat the rambunctious, explorative toddler rarely managed.

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Nina pulled the little girl into a tight embrace, as if to reassure herself that she wouldn't disappear, while running a hand through hair the same shade of reddish brown as her own.

Seeming to sense her mother's distress, even though she didn't comprehend the reason, the toddler remained still for a few moments before beginning to squirm as she complained, "Too tight, Mama. Too tight."

Nina reluctantly relaxed her grip, though she didn't fully let go. "Sorry. I'm sorry, little one," she murmured in a placating tone, mindful not to let the child see the tears that had begun to form in her eyes.

"Mama better?" the girl asked, barely stifling a yawn and blinking furiously to keep her heavy lids from drooping too far.

Nina smiled tenderly at her, though internally she still felt cold. "Yes. I'm fine now. It was just a dream. Go back to sleep," she wrapped her arms around Ruth as the child took her advice, snuggling against her and closing her eyes once more.

"Just a bad dream . . ." she muttered to herself, once the girl's breathing had evened out, signifying that she had fall asleep once more.

The soft, silver glow of the waning moon was the only thing to hear her.

. . . . .

 **November 11, 1938**

 **8:34 am**

When Nina awoke for the second time, it was to the weak light of an early morning winter sun shining through the narrow window of the rundown tenement building she called home. She lay still for a moment, mind still foggy from the depths of sleep, as she attempted to get her bearings. All at once, she sat up in a flash, a wave of panic flooding through her. She was late.

The little girl who'd been curled up next to her made a grumbling noise of complaint as her mother's movement pulled her rather abruptly out of dreamland, rubbing at her eyes with a tiny fist and shivering in the cold morning air. Nina ignored Ruth's protests and attempts to burrow back under the warmth of the blanket, as she scooped her into her arms and rushed to get the both of them ready for the day.

She only paused momentarily when she caught a glimpse of herself in the cracked bathroom mirror. Haunted eyes, underlined by dark circles from chronic lack of sleep stared back at her. What was worse, the bruise from a couple of days earlier had started to turn an unhealthy greenish yellow color, contrasting sharply with her pale skin. Placing a hand gently over the mark, she studied her reflection in the glass surface, wondering if it was worth the effort to try to hide it.

She had been on her way home from work when she had spotted the two police men harassing Herr Ehrmann (and subsequently gotten caught up in the ensuing altercation). Though she wouldn't fully realize it until later, most of the crimes that night hadn't been committed by the regular police force (unless standing back in silent support while Nazi troopers and members of the Hitler Youth movement beat, murdered, and otherwise brutalized their neighbors and vandalized their homes could be legally tried and convicted in court). However, the two officers in question had taken it upon themselves to target the old man during the chaos, having been prevented from doing so previously by the explicit directions of Police Commissioner Gmitz, who claimed he wanted to wait until "sufficient proof of wrongdoing" had been discovered before taking any official action.

For years, Nina had watched her people put up with the harassment and prejudice, all the while hating herself for following her father's advice and hiding her own identity from the public eye. At first, she had weakly attempted to justify her cowardice to herself, insisting it was necessary to protect her family, while doing everything she could to help any downtrodden individual she met (Jewish or otherwise) behind the scenes. After her father and brothers had died, the excuse lost what little power it had held to alleviate her guilt, but by then, her actions had become something of an ingrained habit.

In an attempt to break out of the routine, she had begun forming friendships and alliances with people who were attempting to resist the increasingly institutionalized discrimination, smuggling goods and information, as well as providing her home as a safe house for those persecuted by the governmental and social powers. That had all stopped when she found out she was pregnant, and, ever since her daughter was born, her contact with many members of the informal resistance movement had greatly declined. The excuse of protecting her family had suddenly become real again.

However, in spite of fears concerning her daughter's safety, something had finally snapped in her when she spotted two uniformed men dragging her terrified, elderly neighbor into the street, raining blows down on him when he attempted to stop them from wrecking his home and belongings. The elderly gentleman had been the only Jew besides herself (as far as she knew) to live in the tenement building, and he had been nothing but kind to her, when most others shunned the unmarried mother. Ruth loved to visit the old man, as he usually had a piece of candy or a toy to give her. He had even volunteered to watch the child (while Nina worked in one of the local factories) on the days when her normal babysitter (a middle aged woman who took care of her mentally and physically handicapped brother) was too busy to keep up with an energetic toddler on top of her normal responsibilities.

Seeing the two police officers' casual amusement at the old man's suffering had acted like a match, igniting years of pent up frustration and anger and leading her to finally fight back. She had first attempted to drag one of them away from the senior, only to be roughly shoved aside, causing her to respond by clocking the offender in the jaw with a well placed right hook, sending the man tumbling to the ground. Unfortunately, his partner had responded by striking her with the butt of his gun, knocking her off her feet. Afterwards, she had been hauled to the police station and thrown in a cell overnight, leading to her rather unusual meeting with the Police Commissioner.

Upon returning to retrieve Ruth from her neighbor the next morning, Nina had struggled to come up with an appropriate lie to explain the bruising to an already upset toddler. In the end, much to her neighbor's disapproval (if the woman's pinched lips and narrowed eyes were anything to go by), she had simply told the truth (albeit edited for any content inappropriate for small child), explaining that bad men had tried to hurt a friend and had needed to be stopped like any other bully. The three year old had readily accepted the explanation, simply relieved to have her mother back safe and (mostly) sound, but the look on her babysitter's face had promised Nina that a rather uncomfortable conversation would eventually follow.

As she wrapped up her hastily performed morning routine, Nina grabbed an apple from her kitchen counter and sped out into the hallway, fumbling with her keys as she swiftly locked the door and headed in the direction of her neighbor's apartment to drop off Ruth.

Knocking loudly on the door, she resisted the urge to fidget as she waited for her neighbor to answer. When the woman finally appeared, she looked uncomfortable, frowning faintly as she started to say, "Nina, I meant to tell you . . ."

But Nina interrupted her, flashing her an apologetic smile before rushing to explain, "Franka, I'm sorry, I don't have time. I overslept you see, but now I'm late and I have to go . . . "

The woman hesitated briefly, before shaking her head and muttering, "Fine, go, but we need to talk when you get back. I assume you'll be back _tonight_ this time?"

The tone was neutral, but Nina heard the biting accusation underlying the woman's words anyway.

"Of course," she replied quietly, easily slipping the emotionless mask back on. She bent down to speak to Ruth, giving the girl a small smile as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Be good for Fraulein Eichel, alright? And tell Henry I said hello," she instructed the small child, who threw her arms around Nina's neck.

"Don't go, Mama," she pleaded, sounding immensely unhappy.

Nina frowned faintly to herself as she hugged the girl tightly.

"It'll be ok, Ruth. I'll be home before you know it." She kissed her on the forehead and nudged her towards the weary looking woman at the door, shooting the latter another apologetic look, which was merely waved away as the woman sighed and motioned for her to leave before shutting the door. Nina took the cue, turning and hurrying out of the building as she pulled her ragged coat tighter about her body.

. . . .

Less than thirty minutes later, Nina found herself sitting on a sidewalk with her head in her hands, staring at the pavement and trying to process what had just occurred. Upon reaching the factory where she worked, she had hurried inside, quickly moving to begin her job, ignoring the looks and whispers that circulated among some of the other women at her arrival. Not ten minutes in, the overseer of the floor had entered, calling loudly, "Keller! Boss wants to see you in his office now!"

The flurry of whispering that had accompanied her arrival broke out once more, and one or two of the women shot her a sympathetic look but refused to meet her eyes. Putting a lid on her emotions (as had increasingly become her custom of late), she rose to follow the foreman to her employer's office, where she was left to confront the other man alone.

Upon being granted admittance, she stood stiffly at attention, not letting her face or voice betray any emotion as the man informed her (without bothering to look up from some papers he was reading) that she was being let go.

"I'm . . . sorry?" she felt strange, as though she were trapped in a dream state. Her mind didn't seem to be processing the man's words.

"You're being let go, Fraulein Keller. There is no longer any opportunity of employment for you here," he replied sternly, almost condescendingly. Still, he refused to even look at her, to grant her the small dignity of meeting her gaze as he condemned her to her fate.

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Why are you doing this?" she asked, feeling a bit of her temper finally flare up, the anger desperately attempting to suppress the waves of despair she felt simmering beneath the surface.

At last, he stopped reading, finally lifting his eyes to meet her own as he folded his hands on his desk and replied in a matter of fact tone, "I like to think of myself as a compassionate man, Fraulein Keller. I make a habit of giving to the poor and needy. I treat my employees fairly. I offered you, an unwed mother, a job when most men would not have done so. However, my tolerance has a limit." Here he jabbed his finger on the desk for emphasis. "This company will _not_ be charged with employing criminals and enemies of the public good. Don't think your little 'altercation' with the police has escaped my notice. Frankly, you should be ashamed, attacking an honorable officer of the law."

"Public good? Honorable officer . . . do you have any idea what they were doing?!" she demanded, eyes flashing as she grit her teeth. She didn't even bother addressing his other ludicrous comments, such as treating his employees fairly (a claim the overworked, underpaid woman could provide several arguments against).

"Their duty, Fraulein," the man replied firmly, refusing to back down in the face of her burning anger.

She laughed harshly, throwing up her hands in the air as she rounded on him, "Duty? You call beating an old man senseless duty? You think anyone who could abuse an innocent could possibly be honorable?"

"That man was . . ."

"I don't give a _shit_ what race, religion, or creed that man was! And I don't give a _damn_ what men like you have to say about duty, honor, or the public good, "she snarled, resisting the urge to punch the bastard in the face. Such an action hadn't ended so well for her the last time.

Wheeling about, she strode to the door, only to pause and turn once more to face her former employer (who was struggling in vain to conceal the look of shock on his face) as she added in a deathly quiet voice, "Tyrants are the only ones who could possibly sanction or defend that kind of behavior from an officer of the law, and the thing about tyrants, sir, is that they don't stop. They cannot and will not be appeased. I dearly hope, for your sake, that you're never on the other side of a policeman's call to duty." She turned and exited the office, slamming the door behind her.


	3. Chapter 3: Endings and Beginnings

**Chapter 1:**

 **November 11, 1938**

 **A Train Station in Hannover**

Wisps of bluish gray smoke curled up from the end of the burning cigarette, twining around Josephine's pale, slender fingers like narrow strands of lace before wafting into the damp morning air, the earthy scent of tobacco mingling with the acrid odor of burning that lingered on the breeze. A quiet murmur of thunder sounded in the cloudy sky, and, in the distance, a gradually thinning column of smoke rose from the sleeping city.

A thin layer of soft white snow, newly fallen, coated the street that bordered the station platform, stained here and there by faint patches of soot. These black spots were swiftly erased however, trampled beneath the boots of children making the daily trek to school, still yawning and stretching in the pale morning light.

The tall brunette woman with thoughtful blue eyes took another casual drag of the cigarette, watching its opposite end crumble as it turned into a fine gray ash, which she promptly flicked off the tip like batting away a persistent fly. When the one she smoked was finally reduced to little more than a stub of charred paper, she swiftly lit another.

Her hands were steady with the match, despite the knot of tension that had wormed its way into her gut the night before when a group of grim faced soldiers had stopped her for questioning at the border, demanding to see proof of her citizenship before they would allow her to board the next train.

Upon learning that her father (a German citizen with partial French ancestry) had emigrated with her to France when she was a child (shortly before the start of the Great War), she had been detained for nearly three hours in a small, windowless room while a beady eyed man with a perpetual scowl proceeded to ask an endless series of loaded questions about her ancestry, as well as her own and her late father's allegiances, beliefs, values, politics, and creeds. In short, doing his best to draw out one confession or another.

She had remained calm, of course, answering his questions sincerely and refusing to take the bait. Luckily, her father's passion for archaeological field work (and the necessarily nomadic lifestyle it entailed) had provided her with a lifetime of experience in dealing with foreign cultures, which, ironically, served her well now, in her own home country, as she skillfully navigated the tense conversation with a sense of ease any diplomat would envy. Her relaxed disposition and refusal to be intimidated seemed to aggravate the man to no end. At last, however, he had reluctantly allowed her to leave, with the unspoken (yet clearly understood) promise that she would be watched closely from that moment on left hanging in the air.

By this point, she had missed her train by a few hours. Fortunately, the Station Master had kindly helped her find another to take. She was only grateful that she had planned for the delay ahead of time. Indeed, she would have been surprised if she hadn't been stopped, though it didn't much alleviate the discomfort of the situation. Now though, it appeared to matter little, as she sat waiting for the arrival of her driver, her characteristically serene expression contrasting the slight irritation she felt at the man's lateness.

A coil of smoke drifted past her lips as she slowly breathed out, willing her lingering feelings of unease to subside as her shrewd blue eyes steadily watched the dark cloud that continued to rise from a few streets away. Sticking the cigarette in the corner of her mouth, she rubbed her cold hands together, pondering the troubling events she had heard whispered about on the train. Rumors of brutal, targeted attacks throughout the country that, sadly, didn't surprise her, given the tone underlying every bit of news concerning her native land that had reached her over the past few years.

She had once naively hoped the tales were exaggerated (though, in her gut, she had never believed it). As she observed the column of smoke rising from the slumbering city, she was forced to conclude that they probably weren't. If anything, the reports had likely been suppressed to some degree.

She took another drag of her cigarette, leaning her back against a pillar. A few people shot her odd looks when they caught sight of the strange bluish markings that appeared to have been tattooed along the edges of her face and neck, standing in stark contrast to her otherwise 'normal' appearance, but most ignored her, too intent on their own business to pay any mind to the woman as she perched atop one of her suitcases.

The snow began to fall once more, causing her to burrow further into her coat in an attempt to stay warm while she surveyed the few people unlucky enough to be out and about this early in the morning.

"Fraulein Josephine Delacroix?"

The woman jerked, turning to face the speaker as she rose swiftly to her feet.

Upon seeing who had addressed her, she hastily dropped the cigarette on the pavement, where she put it out with the toe of her boot. "Finally, I was beginning to wonder if you wouldn't show."

"Um, may I take your bags?" the young man who had addressed her, a nervous looking fellow in his early twenties with pale green eyes and yellow hair, asked, gesturing to the luggage she had been resting on with one hand. In the other, he held a brown cap that he appeared to have removed in deference to his new employer.

"Klaus Auer?" she asked, shooting him a tired smile and shaking his free hand.

"Er, yes, ma'am. Look, I'm sorry about the wait," he added quickly, looking increasingly uncomfortable as he replaced his cap. "I meant to be here earlier, but . . . well, your last package came in today and . . . well, you see ma'am, the post master was a little . . . I mean to say, he wasn't sure," he trailed off, not sure how to finish his statement, but Josephine just nodded knowingly.

"Yes, I imagine he made things quite difficult for you. I'm sorry about that. I should have warned you that I'd be shipping finds from the site I was working on. I hope he didn't give you too much trouble? What did you tell him anyway?" she asked, with a note of genuine concern in her eyes, which, if possible, made the young man even more embarrassed.

A touch of red colored his cheeks as he looked down and shuffled his feet, answering, "No, ma'am. Not too much trouble. In any case, I just mentioned your name, like you suggested in your letter. He seemed to understand."

She smiled faintly, though there was a tinge of sadness in it. "Good, I was worried that Hans had retired by now. He used to get all sorts of strange things shipped home when my father, Curzio, was still alive. I remember the last thing he ever sent was this beautifully preserved skeleton from a site we were excavating in Africa. It was interesting because . . ." she trailed off, seeing the slightly green tint that colored the man's face. Smoothing away an invisible wrinkle on her white blouse, she tilted her gaze away and coughed awkwardly, "Well . . . I'm glad it worked out. I can't imagine what would have happened if he wasn't still working there." She chuckled faintly to herself.

Klaus' mouth dropped slightly in surprise as he realized the implication of her statement. "You mean to tell me that . . . you didn't warn me to make sure he was still . . . I could have been arrested! There were," he lowered his voice to a nervous whisper as he hissed, "You had bones and things in those boxes! Human bones!"

"I'm sure you would have thought of something to say if that had happened. You seem capable enough," she smiled again, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder as she added, "Give me a hand with this, will you?" Without waiting for an answer, she deposited one of her bags in his arms, grabbing the others and motioning to him to lead the way to the parked car, which he did so, with a resigned sigh at the realization that his new employer was likely to be just as odd as her father (if the word of the older servants, retained for several years to manage the Delacroix's property in Bergen, could be trusted).

Placing the bags in the boot of the car, he opened the door for her before getting in the driver's seat.

"Might as well get comfortable, ma'am. It's a bit of drive to Bergen . . ." he trailed off and rolled his eyes when he realized Josephine wasn't listening, her nose already buried in a thick volume adorned with strange symbols that he doubtless wouldn't understand. Shaking his head, he started the car and pulled out onto the snow clad road that led out of the city, settling in for a couple hours of silence as they successfully left one column of angry smoke behind, only to be welcomed by another.

. . . . . .

Nina wasn't certain how long she sat with her head cradled in her hands before realizing it had begun to snow once more. The soft, chill sensation brushing against the back of her neck caused her to raise her head, tilting her face to the gray sky as the flurry of frozen water fell to the earth.

She remained still for a moment, enjoying the cooling affect the snowflakes produced on her skin, warmed as it had been by her previous flush of anger. It was only as she took a breath of icy air, blinking away the bits of frost trying to cling to her lashes, that she realized her eyes were slightly damp from something other than the snow. Wiping at them with the back of her hand, she rose to her feet, turning wearily in the direction of her home.

Her mind raced as she walked, desperately trying to come up with a solution to her current predicament. What was she going to do? What was she going to tell her landlady? The woman was uncompromising when it came to the rent schedule, and the fact that Nina had never missed a payment before now would mean little to her. Loyalty was a luxury that a penniless tenant couldn't afford.

Of course, that wasn't even touching on the issue of food, clothing, and all the other necessities of daily living. Poverty was hardly new to her. In fact, she had very nearly ended up on the streets after her father died, even with the help of a support group. Now, she was alone. No, it was worse than that. She was alone and solely responsible for the care of young child . . but she'd be damned if she let Ruth experience the level of destitution she witnessed affecting some of her people. So wrapped up in her thoughts was she, that she didn't see the man until she had stumbled into him.

Nina fell back, instinctively twisting to the side and using her hands to break her fall, letting out a hiss of pain as her palms contacted the frozen ground, the sharp force of the impact traveling up through her wrists. Wincing, she righted herself, vaguely registering the fact that a scrape on her hand had begun to bleed just a little.

A disgruntled noise sounded from the person she had collided with, causing her to look up. She briefly scanned his face (pale, almost pasty skin, blond hair slicked back on his head, and the most penetrating blue eyes she had seen in a long time) before she froze, catching sight of the man's uniform, a small double "S" pin glinting like twin lightning bolts on his jacket. For the second time in her life, she wondered if God was dead.

A feeling of numbness overcame her as his blue eyes flicked up to meet hers. The irritation in his gaze faltered for the briefest of moments as he stared at her, his mouth opening slightly as if in surprise, or perhaps confusion. She realized she was staring and swiftly looked away, muttering an apology as she rose to her feet and offered him a hand. He looked at her outstretched palm for a moment before refusing to take it, pushing himself off the ground. Almost grateful for the perceived slight (she didn't want him touching her), she started to withdraw her hand, only for him to grasp it suddenly, though surprisingly gently.

"You're bleeding," he stated. His voice was odd, possessing an almost rough quality, though not unkind.

She gaped at him, startled for a moment, before jerking her hand away, a little more forcefully than she had intended. He seemed surprised at her reaction, but let her go, studying her curiously.

"I'm fine," she muttered, turning to shove her way past him. "Sorry again." Without looking at him, she swiftly started to walk away, praying he wouldn't try to stop her.

Behind her, the man opened his mouth, unsure of what to say but desperate to say _something,_ anything to get her to stay (though he knew not why), when a voice called out, "Otto! Let's go!" Reluctant, he turned his head, beginning to walk towards the newcomer, though he shot one last glance over his shoulder at the retreating woman, wondering why . . .

"Come on, Otto," the voice of his commanding officer was amused, grating on the first man's nerves, "You can look at all the pretty women you want tonight when we join the Commissioner for drinks, but we're late for a meeting." So saying, the man beckoned him to follow before turning sharply on his heel, expecting the other to match his stride.

Otto obeyed, idly contemplating where his life had gone wrong. He hoped he would see the woman again. She had seemed so . . . so familiar . . . though he couldn't put his finger on it, like a half forgotten dream he wasn't quite sure he had actually dreamt in the first place, rather than merely imagined. Shaking his head, he tried to clear these useless thoughts from his mind, almost snorting at his own silliness.

. . . . .

Nina realized something was wrong when Franka opened the door, lips pursed and a look in her eyes like she wanted to say something but wasn't quite sure how to start.

"Franka . . ."

"I can't watch Ruth anymore. You're going to have to find someone else," the woman spoke abruptly, cutting her off.

Nina felt her stomach clench unpleasantly, a sense of despair running through her like ice in her veins. Not now, she silently begged any power that might be listening. Not when she had just lost her job. Oh why did it have to be now?

Doing her best to keep her voice calm, she asked softly, "Is it Henry? Is he . . . is he alright?"

"Henry's fine," Franka replied brusquely, not looking at her now.

"If this is about the money. I'm still going to pay you at the end of the month . . ."

"What do you mean _still_?" Franka asked suddenly, glancing back at Nina and narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

Nina opened her mouth to reply, found she couldn't, and closed it again without saying anything, a silent self condemnation.

"Damn it, Nina," Franka breathed, passing a hand over her face. She sighed, looking at the other woman with something akin to pity, unknowingly making her neighbor's day even worse by the expression. Nina despised being pitied. It made her feel like she was losing the little bit of control she managed to hold onto through every terrible thing life decided to throw at her.

Franka was speaking again,"It _isn't_ about the money, but . . . I can't keep doing this, Nina. I . . . I can't put myself and my brother in danger," her voice was almost a whisper, but urgent and deadly sincere.

"In danger . . . what do you . . ." Nina began, but the woman cut her off again, shaking her head.

"You know _damn well_ what I mean, Nina Keller," she said, unexpectedly sharp, before stopping abruptly, and looking away again as she took a deep breath. When she turned her gaze back to Nina, some of the severity had abated, to be replaced with a flicker of sorrow, or perhaps regret.

"You're always drawing attention to yourself, Nina, always tangling with the wrong sorts of people. I know you mean well, but . . . but you can't just go around attacking police officers," she lowered her voice even more as she finished, glancing almost involuntarily around the hall, as though afraid one of those police officers was eavesdropping.

"I can't be associated with you anymore," Franka finally said, turning her gaze to a spot by Nina's shoes. "I can't watch your daughter for you. I . . . I can't draw anymore attention to myself. I don't want them to hurt Henry . . ." her trembling voice broke off, a look of sudden pleading in her expression as she looked at Nina. "Don't you understand? He's not . . . He's got so many problems . . . but he's all I've got. If they think he's more trouble to keep alive than he's worth . . ." She covered her mouth, stifling a sob.

In spite of herself, Nina was moved, but still she said quietly, "Franka, if they decide to come for him, not associating with me isn't going to help. We have to do something, speak up . . ."

"No!" Franka hissed, rubbing at her red eyes. "You keep your rebellion to yourself, Keller. If you want to get dragged off in the night, so be it. But I'm not letting your little feud with the police get my little brother killed. Take your daughter and go. I don't want to see you again." Her voice was firm, her eyes hard.

"Alright, Franka," Nina replied quietly, moving past her to get Ruth. She paused for a moment, saying softly, just loud enough that the woman beside her could hear, "I just hope, if they do come," she looked up, gazing firmly into Franka's eyes, "that there's someone left to stand up for you. God knows you wouldn't let me even try." Franka didn't answer verbally, just motioning to her to hurry and leave.

Nina complied, giving her daughter a smile she didn't feel as she picked her up and kissed her on the top of her head.

"Hi, Mama," the little girl smiled. She twisted in Nina's arms to wave bye to the wheelchair bound man who smiled at her but otherwise didn't seem particularly engaged with his environment.

"Bye Henry!" Ruth called.

Nina gave him a nod of acknowledgement before exiting the apartment, not looking at Franka as she left, and therefore not seeing the guilt mixed with fear mixed with sorrow that lined the woman's face.

"I'm sorry, Nina," the woman whispered, leaning her head against the door after she gently shut it.

. . . .

Nina had just put her daughter down for a nap when an insistent rapping sounded at her door. Cynically wondering if it was her landlady come to throw her out, she moved to open it, only to stop and stare in surprise at the sight that met her.

"Commissioner Ghmitz . . . what are you doing here?"

"Do you mind if I come in? It's rather urgent that I speak with you," he replied, dusting a bit of snow off his jacket.

"Sure . . . why not," she said slowly, but stood aside to let him pass, eying him warily.

"And please, do call me Theodoric, Nina," he added, shutting the door himself as he stepped inside.

"Right, well, what can I help you with, Theodoric? I hope you haven't changed your mind and decided to arrest me, because I really wouldn't be surprised. It's been one hell of a day."

He shot her a look of sympathy, but chuckled lightly, "No, nothing like that, though I'm sorry to hear it."

"So . . . why are you here?" she asked.

"Well, I promised I would be in touch," he began slowly. "I've just come to tell you that you're now officially my niece . . . "


	4. Chapter 4: Alliance

AN: Sorry for the short chapter, and the delay in posting.

 **November 11, 1938**

 **Bergen, Germany**

The silence seemed to stretch on for an eternity, filled only by the faint noise of cars and pedestrians which drifted up from the street below and slipped like a draft of air through the paper thin walls. The longer he waited listening, ears straining against the uncomfortable stillness, the more noises he could pick out, like the soft 'drip drip' of a leaky pipe somewhere in the walls and the dull 'thud' of footsteps from the floor above. The living space around him was meticulously kept, but he was acutely aware of the threadbare nature of the furniture, the sparseness of the decoration.

In spite of the obvious poverty of the place, it radiated the quiet, indomitable pride of its primary occupant. He hadn't realized until now how awkwardly intimate it could feel to suddenly be standing in a stranger's home, in the midst of all her worldly belongings, occupying with her the little niche she had tirelessly carved out for herself from a cold and mostly uncaring world.

Theodoric resisted the urge to shift uneasily as Nina wordlessly appraised him, her dark eyes clouded by indiscernible emotions. Her facial expression, so easily deciphered the day before when her passionate ferocity and righteous indignation had seemed to light up her entire body like the sun, was now carefully neutral, her thoughts buried beneath more layers of practiced detachment than he could have ever dreamed existed in the woman before him. He _had_ stunned her for a moment, if the fleeting look of shock that had crossed her face was any indication, but only for a moment. Now, the tenseness of her posture was all that hinted at her true feelings.

He noticed that the bruise on her cheek had begun to fade to a sickly yellow green color, touched by darker spots of purple that matched the rings of exhaustion under her eyes. In spite of what appeared to be a chronic lack of sleep, however, she was very much aware of her surroundings, watching his every movement warily as if she expected him to attack at any second.

"Oh?"

The word was spoken softly, in a strained attempt at sounding casual. Her eyes remained fixed on his, but he noticed her fidget slightly, as if subconsciously calculating an escape route. Her tone reminded him of one he had once used himself when talking one of his men, who had been driven mad by the horrors of the War, out of doing something tragic. It was the kind of voice one would use when addressing a wounded and dangerous animal.

"You think I'm crazy," he said with a gentle, sad smile.

"I never said that," she denied swiftly.

"Then you think I am trying to trick you," he rebutted, shaking his head. "The point is . . . you don't trust me."

"Can you blame me?" she blurted out abruptly, letting out a scornful laugh. Some of the neutrality had drained from her expression, replaced by irritation and anger. "My people are being murdered in their homes and you just sit there and do nothing!" she hissed, eyes flashing. "And then you have the _audacity_ to claim you want to help me." She paused for a moment, her mouth drawn in a tight line as her eyes bored into him. "Why?" she demanded brusquely, after a moment of silence. "Why do you want to help _me_? What is it you think I can give you? What do you _want_?"

"You look like my daughter," he replied simply.

His direct honesty caught her off guard. Some of the anger and suspicion dropped out of her face, her shoulders slumping slightly as her posture relaxed. She regarded him wearily, seeming to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders.

"I'm sorry you lost your daughter, I really am," she began, "but . . . you can't ask me hide behind a lie while my people . . . my friends are being oppressed."

"And yet, here you are, safe and sound," he replied, watching her reaction carefully. "I noticed that you never registered for your identification card. Oddly enough, no one else seemed to notice either. So, I can only surmise that you're _already_ hiding, my dear," he spoke gently, not wishing to anger her, but he wanted to understand, to rectify his image of the unyielding defender of justice with the uneasy woman in front of him. How did one go from fighting off corrupt officers of the law, to cowering in anonymity? How did one transition from fearless to fearful?

She didn't answer for a long time, studying him intently as if weighing her options and trying to decide once and for all whether he could be trusted. At long last, she said quietly, "It isn't for myself. I'm trying to protect my own daughter. She's . . . not even four yet." She looked at him steadily as she spoke, not asking for his pity, but still managing to wordlessly convey the desperation she felt, if unintentionally.

"Your daughter . . ." he frowned faintly. "But . . . there was no mention . . ."

"Ich kenne," she cut him off abruptly with a sigh, running a hand over her tired face. "I know . . . She was delivered here by a midwife, a Jewish woman who understood my desire for secrecy. I have the only copy of her records. Obviously I couldn't hide her completely . . . but I did what I was able to."

"What of the girl's father?" he pressed.

An odd look flitted across Nina's face as she replied curtly, "He's dead."

Theodoric let the subject drop, saving the conversation for another day.

"Well then," he replied in a bright tone, "I suppose my work isn't quite finished then? I managed to falsify the paper trail following you, after all. Shouldn't be too difficult."

She stared at him for a moment, torn between feeling curious and feeling disturbed.

"I don't want to know . . . whatever it is you did before . . . that taught you how to do that, do I?" she managed, somewhat less than eloquently, in what sounded like a half-hearted attempt at a joke. It was obvious that she didn't find much occasion for humor, the forced intonation to her voice sounded almost pained.

"No," he replied, deadly serious. "You don't." _You would try to kill me if you did know_ , he thought grimly. _If you could even begin to imagine what I've done, the lives I've destroyed.  
_

A pensive expression lit her eyes. "You must have a better reason for helping me than the fact that I look like your daughter?"

"I loved my daughter dearly," he responded sincerely but evasively, not quite ready to lay out all of his plans on the table for her to see.

"But . . . I'm not your daughter," she pressed insistently, "I'm just a stranger . . . by all accounts your enemy . . who happens to remind you of her. . . I'm not that naive, Theodoric. You're up to something." This last bit was added with an involuntary glance at his uniform.

He regarded her thoughtfully before answering, "I confess that my motivations are not as straightforward as I might have led you to believe." He paused, watching her reaction, but she simply nodded for him to continue.

"I loved my daughter dearly, as I've already said," he began, speaking slowly. "She was the light of my life, my only child. I would have done anything for her. You must understand this above all else . . . you can't imagine how it feels to look at you and almost see her here, alive again," he stopped speaking for a moment to compose himself, silently fighting off a sudden tightness in his chest. When he began to talk once more, his voice was blessedly steady, honed on years of practice concealing his own emotions. "I make no excuses for what my daughter did . . . what she became, but she was my child. She, like so many of our young people, was swept up in the _madness_ that plagues this country. She wasn't . . . whole anymore when she sought refuge in the State's corrupted ideals. Life is not always kind, as I'm sure you know. The point is that all of the propaganda, all of the hate, all of the fury purposely stoked by those in power . . . it ended up costing her life, though I fear her soul was destroyed long before that happened. I'm helping you because I do not wish to see this cancer consume anymore of _my_ people. And it is consuming us," he laughed shortly, a hopeless sound.

She continued to watch him wordlessly, though he noticed a slight frown forming on her face. He held out a hand to her, in a gesture of supplication as he pleaded, "I'm not asking for your sympathy. I don't deserve it. None of us do . . . but I don't want to watch my homeland tear itself to pieces, to see my people burn in the fires of their own making. You must understand . . . all of this affects us too. We may not face the prejudice, the bigotry, the beatings, or the ghettos . . . but I swear to you that I've seen the ghettos in men's eyes. The soullessness of a people who have become monsters. I don't want to see any more children learn to hate."

"I'm not sure what your point is," she replied tersely, clearly angry but attempting not to show it.

"I want to help . . . not just you, but everyone who is being persecuted. I want to do some good in my life."

She scoffed at him. "I'm not your salvation, Commissioner. And you're not mine."

"Perhaps not," he replied sadly, letting his hand fall to his side. "But I hope to be theirs . . . just as you hope to save your own people. Not everyone in this country wears a uniform, you know."

"And not all of the monsters are _in_ uniform," she bit back acerbically. He was struck by the sudden venom in her voice, though he almost heard a pained note underlying the fury. He didn't reply, merely watching quietly as she internally wrestled with herself. After what felt like forever, she glanced up at him, her eyes lingering for a moment on his attire before she spoke softly, "But you have helped me . . . and in spite of all sense of logic . . . I trust you." Her eyes met his, reflecting her sincerity as she wordlessly implored him not to throw away the fragile trust she had bestowed. "I'll help you."


	5. Chapter 5: Aftermath

_**Chicago Tribune**_

 _ **Homes Burned; Stores Looted; Terror Reigns**_

 _By Sigrid Schultz_

BERLIN, Nov. 10.-Systematic destruction of Jewish property, looting, arson, and wholesale arrest of Jews without official charges swept Germany today. It is estimated that . . .

 _ **The New York Times**_

 ** _Nazis Smash, Loot and Burn Jewish Shops and Temples Until Goebbels Calls Halt_**

 ** _All Vienna's Synagogues Attacked,_**

 ** _Fires and Bombs Wreck 18 of 21_**

VIENNA, Nov. 10. -In a surge of revenge for the murder of a German diplomat in Paris by a young Polish Jew . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

"In view of this being a totalitarian state a surprising characteristic of the situation here is the intensity and scope among German citizens of condemnation of the recent happenings against Jews."

-Ambassador Wilson

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

The American Ambassador to Germany was recalled by his president in the days following what would come to be known as Kristallnacht.

His withdrawal came amidst a storm of severe disapproval from the other civilized peoples (and many Germans) of the world toward the events that transpired in that cold month of November. Upon the esteemed ambassador's departure, under cover of the angry words and declarations of boycotts pouring forth from the peoples of these nations in crisp black and white newsprint, the spy quietly made an entrance.

 **November 11, 1938**

 **8:13 pm**

 **Bergen, Germany**

 **A local beer hall**

The quiet murmuring of a scattered handful of voices swept over the Commissioner like a gentle, pattering rain as he slipped through the door. Pausing to remove his coat, he brushed the snow off his sleeves for the second time that day and took a brief moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim interior of what constituted the local beer hall.

To his immediate left, a few troubled looking men sat huddled in closely spaced chairs by the fire, conversing in low voices as they smoked. One of the party, a middle aged man with graying hair and steely blue eyes, lifted his head at the sound of the door opening, as well as the subsequent blast of icy air its movement let inside. Meeting the Commissioner's gaze, he frowned faintly, taking the pipe from his mouth. Sensing their friend's abrupt shift in attention, the stranger's companions paused in their discussion, each one slowly raising his head to stare at Theodoric, all discussion falling off.

The Commissioner held their gazes for a long moment before turning and scanning the rest of the establishment. The uncomfortable prickling on the back of his neck alerted him to the fact that the men continued to watch his every move.

From across the hall, Obersturmbannführer Heinrich Schlusser caught his eye, beckoning to him with one impatient, crooked finger. The man's arrogance truly was boundless. Sitting by his side, and looking slightly uncomfortable, was Obersturmführer Otto Itter.

Weaving his way through the tables, Theodoric approached them, inclining his head in greeting. "Lieutenant Colonel Schlusser, Lieutenant Itter," he placed a slight emphasis on the first part of Schlusser's title, earning a faintly irritated look from the other man. It was petty, and hardly significant, but he enjoyed bringing the overly ambitious officer down to earth every now and then.

"Commissioner," Schlusser attempted to drawl nonchalantly, but the faintly pinched look of annoyance on his face betrayed his impatience. "So good of you to join us," the casualness was swiftly replaced with a more clipped tone.

"I apologize for my lateness, Lieutenant Colonel," Theodoric replied evenly as he took a seat, lacing his own voice with enough sarcasm to convey that he had no intention of becoming Schlusser's lapdog, while still managing to avoid any serious repercussions. "I've been dealing with the fallout from that little stunt of Goebbels's."

Schlusser's eyes narrowed visibly as he leaned forward and spoke, "Oh? Something you find disagreeable about justice, Commissioner?"

Theodoric snorted derisively, waving his hand at the bar tender for a drink. After the man had placed his usual order in front of him and departed to finish drying a stack of mugs, the Commisioner took a slow, measured sip, eying Schlusser over the rim of his glass. "You seem rather overly concerned with justice, Lieutenant Colonel, for one who does not adhere to the due process of law."

Schlusser's eyes narrowed impossibly farther as he ground out a retort, "Animals do not deserve due process, Commissioner. Or perhaps you think we should have let Roth's brutal murder go another day unpunished?"

Punishment or vengeance?

The rhetorical question echoed in his mind as Theodoric regarded Schlusser with practiced nonchalance, raising a single eyebrow as he took another sip of beer and savoring the taste like a fine wine. God knew he needed something stronger than either of those options.

At length he replied, "Not at all, my friend, you misunderstand me. I am nothing if not an advocate of law and order; I am German, after all, not the uncivilized brute you imagine. Such crimes must always come with consequences . . ."

Setting his mug down with a quiet 'thump', he sent Schlusser a bland, almost disinterested glance, though inwardly he was aware he was treading on shattered glass, emotions and mixed loyalties that gleamed as brightly as the ruined storefronts he had passed on his way to the meeting.

He paused for another long moment as he stuck a hand in his jacket, fumbling for the pack of cigarettes and a lighter he had stuffed in the inside pocket. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Schlusser's hands tighten ever so slightly, while his aide, Lieutenant Itter, leaned slightly back, sticking a casual hand into his own jacket pocket as he surveyed the Commissioner with an unreadable expression.

Theodoric ignored them both as he pulled the package out of his jacket with a quiet 'hah' of triumph. Sliding one of the cigarettes from its case, he popped it in the corner of his mouth, lighting it with a swift flick. With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, taking a long drag before exhaling a cloud of blueish gray smoke from his lips. The men in the corner continued to shoot him furtive glances.

Finally, after what seemed an inappropriately lengthy pause, during which he rather pointedly ignored Schlusser (much to the other man's irritation) he continued, "I was simply unaware that my tailor and my grocer had so thoroughly wronged this great country of ours . . . And my doctor too, for that matter!"He chuckled softly at this last bit, as if he had just thought of it, when, in reality, he had begun planning this speech before he even stepped through the door.

He exhaled a bit of smoke once more as he made a show of ticking off a list of guilty persons on his fingers, "As well as the woman who teaches school down the street, the young paper boy, a rather talented local baker . . . To think that _all_ of them were collaborating in this most heinous of crimes. . . the _scoundrels_. Why, it's nearly unfathomable!"

For the briefest of instants, Theodoric wondered if Schlusser had forgotten how to breathe, so still was the man, his face pale and contorted in unspoken rage. The Commissioner was surprised, in any case. He would have pegged the Lieutenant Colonel as the fire and brimstone type when angry, all red faces and words shouted so loudly they left one's throat raw. He never would have expected seething silence. Bravo, Lieutenant Colonel, bravo.

After an eternal silence, far colder than the air which whistled ominously outside, the officer seemed, at last, to overcome his indignation long enough to hiss out these angry words,"I realize that you have remained comfortably in your office in this _little town_ for a very long time, Commissioner, but those of us not in _civilian_ service are keenly aware of the war that is brewing. Your jokes, as well as your blatant disregard for the squandered life of a son of Germany, are not appreciated."

Putting out the stub of his cigarette, Theodoric fixed Schlusser with a quiet stare. "On the contrary, I feel nothing but remorse at the the death of _any_ child of Germany . . . but I can't help but wonder, how many more lives will be lost in the pursuit of revenge?"

" _None that matter_ ," Schlusser said sharply, slapping his hand down with a 'thud' as he leaned forward. The noise in the pub dropped perceptibly as several patrons turned away from their own conversations to stare. The Commissioner shot them a pointed look before pulling his chair closer to the table and lowering his voice.

"Calm yourself, Schlusser, you're making a scene," he drawled, pulling out another cigarette. Lieutenant Itter, who had remained quiet this entire time, seemed caught between his support role of his superior officer and embarrassment at the man's outburst. In any case, he gladly accepted the offered cigarette, lighting it with a grumble of thanks.

To his credit, Schlusser himself appeared slightly abashed. Drawing himself up imperiously, he added, in an infinitely calmer, more controlled tone, "Germans protect their own, Commissioner. This is justice, and we will see it through. In this, we will be victorious. We will reclaim our society from these . . . _people_. We won't allow the kind of degradation that plagues so many other countries to take root here."

Ignoring the last bit of his speech, the Commissioner replied, "Justice? Perhaps, though, as I have already hinted, not everyone would agree with that assessment of the situation. Some feel that your men went too far in their retribution, that the punishment was a tad . . . overzealous. Many citizens here were unnerved by the level of the destruction . . . I've heard several complaints just this morning, actually. And I trust you've received word of the ambassador's withdrawal."

"Wer? Die Amerikaner?" Schlusser scoffed, but then added in a very serious tone, "I have no doubt that the course we are on will lose us many friends and allies, Commissioner, but when we stand above the rest of the world as the pinnacle of cultural achievement, we will not mourn the loss." He stood abruptly and motioned to Itter to rise as well.

Donning his coat and hat, he spoke rapidly as his fingers worked to button his garment, "They are _weak_ , Commissioner, all of them . . . The Americans, the French, the British, and all the rest. Weak and morally bankrupt. We _will not tolerate_ the kind of scum they allow to corrupt their societies from within. The Jews, the Communists, the homosexuals, and all the other depraved fiends who continue to undermine law, order, and basic decency at every turn. We will _purge_ Germany, Commissioner . . . and reforge her anew." He finished buttoning the top of his coat, glancing up to meet the Commissioner's gaze with his own steadfast expression. "The rest can simply be left to rot," he finished, nodding his head to the other man before turning sharply on his heel and making his departure.

 _ **January 12, 1935**_

 _ **Bergen, Germany**_

The stern faced woman sitting perched behind the desk leveled a frown in Nina's direction, thin lips pinched in a tight line as her pale blue eyes peered disapprovingly over her rectangular, wire-framed glasses. Her honey blonde hair, well on its way to turning gray, was pulled into a tight bun on the back of her head. Overall, she was dressed conservatively, in a high necked sweater with a long wool skirt trailing down to her rather pragmatic shoes, though Nina's attention was caught momentarily by the small yellow butterfly pin affixed inconspicuously to the lapel of her discarded jacket. It seemed out of place in the austere woman's wardrobe, resting innocently in the drab office, a space warmed only by the faint whistle of a tea kettle beginning to steam.

"Frau Keller?" the woman's voice was brusque and impatient. Nina jerked her head up at the sound.

"I'm sorry . . . what was your question?" she asked quietly.

"Your husband?" the older woman inquired, a thin veil of civility failing to hide the suspicion in her voice. The woman's tone, coupled with a rather severe countenance, strongly reminded Nina of a teacher from her schooldays, but she pushed the thoughts away, unwilling to get lost once more in her musings.

Willing her tightly clasped hands to relax, she muttered, "Killed in a mining accident," and feigned a tear wipe while averting her eyes from the woman's piercing glare.

"My condolences," the woman replied, seeming unaffected by her potential tenant's past woes. "But where is your wedding ring?"

Nina tucked her head down further, utilizing the discomfort she felt to sell her story. "I . . . I had to sell it . . . to buy food for myself and . . . well," she trailed off, keenly aware of the woman's gaze on her protruding abdomen. Lifting her eyes to meet the other woman's, she added in a firmer voice, "But, as I've told you, I've managed to find a job . . ."

"With Herr Geier, at his factory," she interrupted, waving her hand impatiently. "Yes, you've said. Remind me again, what kind of factory is it?"

"We make ammunition," Nina answered in a hollow voice.

The woman made a tutting noise of disapproval. "Is that wise in your . . . Condition? I can't imagine what kind of substances you must be exposed to. Why, just the gunpowder alone . . ." Her eyes judged silently as she trailed off, letting the weight of her condemnation fall on Nina.

Seething silently, Nina took a calming breath before replying, "Unfortunately, I don't have much of a choice in the matter. Not many people are willing to hire me in my _condition_." Her eyes narrowed involuntarily as she finished, though she attempted to will politeness into her voice. It came out sounding slightly artificial, regardless.

The landlady looked slightly scandalized by the woman's blunt reference to her own (illigitimate) pregnancy and the societal ramifications that burdened an expecting mother, but Nina didn't particularly care. After being either pointedly ignored or unashamedly gawked at for the past few months, she had very quickly developed an even thicker skin to insult than she already possessed. Oh, it hurt of course, but the sting of a stranger's derision was low on her list of emotional wounds.

After a long, drawn out silence, the woman sighed, tapping her fingers on the surface of her old wooden desk. Nina waited patiently for her decision.

"Well, I suppose I do have one available option, though I'll tell you now that I have no tolerance for renters who don't pay their bills," the woman conceded, tacking on the last bit as a not so subtle threat. "One time, Frau Keller, and I'll have to turn you out."

"Of course," Nina replied smoothly, letting her face go blank. "When can I move in?"

"Oh, today is fine," the woman said irritably, making a show of shuffling some papers on her desk. "I'll have to have you sign a contract, pay a deposit for the first month . . . it really is a mess of paperwork." She frowned at Nina faintly, as if the woman were inconveniencing her, but she added, "I'll have to get copies of a few things. I trust you have some way of occupying yourself for an hour or so?"

Nina nodded, rising to her feet. "Yes, I'll collect my belongings . . . It shouldn't take me long."

The landlady nodded, murmuring, "Good, good. See that you're here at a quarter to ten."

As Nina made her way to the door, the woman called out once more, her voice slightly softer, almost thoughtful, "Oh? And Frau Keller?"

Nina glanced back at her, pausing with her hand on the doorknob.

"Yes?"

The woman fixed her with her piercing stare once more, speaking slowly and deliberately, "I am not a fool, Frau Keller . . . but I am not cold hearted enough to turn away a new mother . . . not if she's willing and able to pay. But I dearly hope that you are wise enough to pray to God . . . to beg His forgives for your sin."

Nina stared at her for a moment before replying shortly, "Every day," and letting the door swing closed behind her.

. . . . . . . . .

 _ **Later that day**_

Franka looked up from the blanket she was knitting at the loud 'thud' that echoed in the thin walled hallway outside her door. The crash was immediately followed by the sound of muffled cursing. Curiosity piqued, she carefully set her knitting needles aside and rose to her feet, smoothing out her skirt from where it had become rumpled during her sitting. After casting a quick glance in the other room to check on her sleeping brother, she opened the door of her apartment, poking her head out into the dimly lit hall.

At first glance, the corridor appeared to be deserted, silent wooden doors lining the cheerless walls. _Odd_ , she thought. _That sound must have come from somewhere._ Franka frowned to herself, stepping quietly outside and starting to pull the door shut behind her. She hesitated at the last second, though, casting a worried glance back inside her apartment . . . but no, Henry was sleeping. He would survive without her for a moment.

Letting her curiosity lead her, she took a few cautious steps towards the renewed sounds of soft cursing, her stocking clad feet treading inaudibly on the cold floor. Tilting her head around the banister, she peered down the staircase.

An auburn haired woman was standing several steps down from her, her arms wrapped tightly around an unwieldy box as she gazed in dismay at another lying at her feet. A bag rested on the step below her.

"Scheißkerl . . ." the stranger muttered grimly.

Franka nearly winced at the woman's foul language, resisting the urge to clap her hands over her ears as her late mother would have done for her.

Still curious, she steeled herself enough to call, "Hallo! Kann ich Sie helfen?" startling the stranger and almost causing her to drop the box she carried. Dark brown eyes peered flashed upwards, seeking her own green ones.

"I didn't realize I had an audience," the woman said slowly and almost, but not quite, sheepishly.

"Do you need help?" Franka repeated, taking what, to her, amounted as a brave step forward. She normally didn't spend much time talking to strangers; Henry took up most of her free moments, after all, but she was curious, and more than a little bored.

"Nein! No, I've got it," the woman insisted, giving the second box up for lost and starting to ascend the staircase. Franka watched her for a moment until she stopped at a door near her own, setting her burden down on the scuffed wooden floor.

Shooting an uncomfortable glance at Franka, she added, "I appreciate the offer, but really, I'm fine . . ."

Franka interrupted her, having caught a closer glance at the woman, now that she was no longer hidden behind a box.

"Mein Gott! Really? But you must be far along? Wo ist dein Ehemann?" she demanded, adding more angrily, "What kind of a man makes his pregnant wife move into a place by herself?" Franka's speech was rapid as she moved to grab the abandoned box and bag from the stairs. The auburn haired, dark eyed woman seemed startled by her outburst, almost visibly withdrawing into herself as her new neighbor moved to help her.

"Danke," she said shortly, her cautious looking eyes taking in Franka's movements warily as she accepted her belongings.

Franka's sense of decorum chose that moment to catch up with her. Taking a step back, she said hastily, "I'm sorry. I got a little carried away . . . It was nice to meet you." With those parting words, she swiftly spun on her heel and hurried back to her own rooms, shutting the door a little more forcefully than necessary.

Due to her flush of embarrassment (and subsequent eagerness to remove herself from the situation as quickly as possible), Franka didn't see the woman staring after her retreating form, or the confused shake of her head as she muttered something under her breath before unlocking her door and leaving the hallway behind.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

AN: I want to apologize for the lengthy delay. I have a terrible habit of reworking a chapter in my head until the point of insanity. Also, German is a beautiful language. However, it is one in which I am not at all fluent. I am certain there are errors present (including the use of formal and informal forms). So please, feel free to correct any errors you spot! This story is probably going to move very slowly through the early years of WW2, fair warning.


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